Gregory House, M.D. (doctorgreghouse) wrote in willingtoliefor,
Gregory House, M.D.

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what rough beast

Who: House, Stacy, closed[phone call]
Where: Still at Harvey's Bar & Grill
When: Still during the course of his discussion with Chase after their escape from PPTH; House, half past buzzed and headed for drunk, has a thought and excuses himself from Chase to make a phone call. [Worried about our jobs, are we? Naaaaah.]
What: Chase's comment about whose job is worth more makes House retreat for help to a familiar quarter.

Notes: I wanted to get this plot rolling a little faster, since no other logs have been posted; I'd assume that Stacy is just that cool and of course not at all bound by professionalism to help Parker out as to let Cuddy & Co. know she's talked to him. Hence: the call for advice.


How many beers had he had? Four, five? House had pretty much lost count at that point, and it wasn't even two o'clock yet; he had to snort and shake his head even as he excused himself to the huddle of waitresses and incoming lunch patrons... well, he excused himself until they refused to get the hell out of his way, anyway, and then he got a little more insistent with his shoulder and the end of his cane. Get the hell out my way, damnit.

He wasn't uneasy, not just yet, but a steadily shrinking part of his mind realized and acknowledged the very real risk that he'd taken in trying to make Chase let go of his past. By now Cuddy[and he refused to think about that, too, thanks: refused to think about what he might have lost by doing what he'd done] had probably put a contract out on his limping ass, and judging by Chase's willingness to sacrifice his job, he knew just as well as House did that they'd crossed some line, back there.

Which is why he'd excused himself from the table to slip into the tiny little benched alcove by the side doors, digging out his cell phone and sighing at it briefly before rubbing the back of his neck and flipping it open. He must be drunk, must be, or else he wouldn't have dialed the number from memory without thinking about it, without looking at it, without engaging his higher brain beyond the simple thought that she'd know, at least: she'd know and she'd say something, at least, before Sam Parker got her fucking fangs in his throat and ripped.

Even if it was only "It sucks to be you, Greg".

He cleared his throat when the phone was picked up. No preamble whatsoever.

"I think I'm in shit."
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